


boys night out

by ElisAttack



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark Comedy, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Roommates, Santa Clarita Diet AU, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Steve’s a flying purple people eater, Thor’s unconditional love of snakes, Zombies, Zombies but not arrrrg braaains zombies, except he doesn’t fly, nor is he purple, the symptoms of zombieism are suspiciously superserum-esque
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: Ever since Steve made it his New Year's resolution to get ripped, shredded, stacked, jacked, etc. he's been eating their shelves dry.  He used to be good at respecting the boundary between communal food and what washands-off-holy-crap-don’t-you-dareBucky’s.  Then Bucky came home to an empty carton ofhisChunky Monkey in the bin, which was about the time he started thinking that Steve has a problem.Or the one where Steve suddenly gains a disgusting amount of energy, a craving for raw meat, and Bucky isn't worried, really, he isn't...





	1. he ate what?!

**Author's Note:**

> This was born from me watching season two of Santa Clarita Diet with Tadhg, and him commenting that Sheila chasing jackrabbits through the desert wilds for lack of challenge seems like something Steve would do. Lo and behold, this happened.
> 
> So, disclaimers... this is inspired by Santa Clarita Diet, and while the zombies aren't exactly the same, it borrows pretty heavily, (but you don't have to watch the show to understand the fic.) All the warnings that apply to the show, apply to this. Take that into consideration. This is a comedy, but it’s also very dark. ‘Tis, as they say, a dark comedy.

****Ever since Steve made it his New Year's resolution to get ripped, shredded, stacked, jacked, etc. he's been eating their shelves dry.  He used to be good at respecting the boundary between communal food and what was _hands-off-holy-crap-don’t-you-dare_ Bucky’s.  Then Bucky came home to an empty carton of _his_ Chunky Monkey in the bin, which was about the time he started thinking that Steve has a problem.

He points this out one fine morning as he walks into the kitchen.  “Stevie, why?”

Like a slice of beautiful irony with iron biceps, Steve pokes his head from around the fridge door, a chicken wing in hand.  He swallows a mouthful, and says, “I don't know why, Buck, I'm just so hungry.”

Bucky stares balefully at all that remains of the family pack of spicy buffalo wings he bought last night.  Namely, an empty meat tray. He was looking forward to starting up the grill, and having Tasha and Sam over for a barbeque.  A housewarming of sorts, now that the weather’s finally cooperating. Heck, the only reason he put on pants this morning was so he could pick up a propane cylinder from the supermarket.

He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair.  Bucky’s too tired to have this conversation. One day he’s going to have to sit Steve down and have The Roommate Talk.  In the eight plus years they’ve been living together, it’s never been necessary. Until now.

Not today, though.  Today, he scoots around Steve, hoping he hasn't decimated the Cheerios too.  That’s about when Bucky notices the empty sink and drying rack, and that the oven door isn't propped open to let the heat out.

“Steve,”  Bucky says slowly.  He can't believe he’s even asking this, but the wing Steve's snacking on is looking a little unburnt.  “Did you cook that?”

Steve takes another bite while Bucky stares in growing horror.  “‘M I supposed to?”

“Yes!”  Bucky exclaims, ripping the raw chicken from Steve’s mouth.  “Spit it out, spit it out right now!”

Like a kicked golden retriever, Steve does as bade, pouting all the while.  “You don't have to be so mean.”

Bucky makes a face and flings the wing in the bin, washing his hands.  He's tempted to do the same of Steve's mouth. He _should_ do the same of Steve’s mouth.

“Is this a side effect of the new protein powder you're taking?  Are you getting weird cravings?” He asks all in a rush, truly panicked.  This is like Becca’s pregnancy all over again, just more horrifying. His sister swelled to the size of a whale, but even she restrained herself to Funyuns dipped in chocolate.  If Steve thinks eating raw chicken is fine, Bucky shudders to think of what else he considers edible.

“Doc Erskine said—”

“If that man has a doctorate, I'll eat my own hat,”  Bucky spits vehemently of Steve's new trainer slash nutritionist.  He never trusted Erskine from the start. For fuck’s sake, Steve found him on Craigslist.

He looks to the empty pack, then at the bin, where a sad collection of wing scraps lay, all of them gnawed to the bone.  There were at least twenty before Steve got his claws into them. “I should drive you to the hospital.” Bucky looks at the time on his phone.  “But I have to get the propane, and more chicken wings. Thanks to you.”

Steve perks up.  “Hey, while you're at the supermarket, could you pick up some steaks?”

Bucky looks at him blankly.  “You're unbelievable.”

Steve grins.  “You love me anyway.”

God help him, he does.

***

“Raw, Tasha, he straight up ate them raw.”

“That's disgusting,”  she says, her voice a tinny through the speakers,  “Tell me more.”

Balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear, he pushes the shopping cart through the veggie aisle.  Cherry tomatoes are on sale, so he picks up a pack of those, along with a half dozen ears of corn, and a gorgeous sugar baby watermelon, skin so dark green it looks black.

One of the many good things about moving out of Manhattan, back to his roots in Brooklyn, while making more money than he ever has before, is that for the first time in his life, Bucky has a yard.  He and Steve are renting the house, but he’s pretty sure their landlord won’t mind that he dug up a small stretch of weedy grass for a vegetable garden. Okay, maybe only slightly sure. Rumlow’s a nasty fellow, but even he can be reasoned with.

“It must be the protein powder his trainer’s been pouring down his throat.”

Tasha hums.  “It could be spiked with steroids.  Have you noticed him displaying any aggressive behaviours?”

Bucky thinks about yesterday morning.  How he woke to Steve jumping on him, begging Bucky to join him on his jog.  Steve had smiled that beautiful, brilliant smile of his and Bucky was unable to refuse.  He’d pulled himself out of bed and got dressed, only to throw in the towel a block in, unable to keep up with Steve’s punishing pace.   _Jogging_ , Steve had said.  It felt like they was running a hybrid between a dash and a marathon.

“He's the same Steve as ever,”  Bucky says, rolling into the meat aisle.  “Just with a disgusting amount of energy.”

Quickly deciding to forego the chicken wings—the memory of Steve snacking on them has him sick to his stomach—he chooses instead a pack of thick ribeyes.  Not because Steve asked it of him, not at all.

“He puts us all to shame,”  Tasha laughs, “Sam says he broke the rowing machine at the gym, then offered to pay for repairs.”

“Yeah, he's really something,”  Bucky says, smiling like an idiot.  Dumping the steaks in his cart, he rolls out of the meat aisle.

Slyly, Tasha says,  “You’d know, wouldn't you?”

“You promised you wouldn't tease me,”  Bucky whines. He stops in front of a display.  “Tequila barbecue sauce?”

“No shit, James, also the honey garlic.”  She continues. “And, that was a promise made years ago, I'm not liable for things I said while under the influence.”

Bucky snorts.  “Under the influence of what?”  He says spotting a display of Steve's favourite doughnuts.  He looks for the apple cinnamon crullers.

“Under the influence of your fucking weed habit,”  she says, unimpressed.

At first Bucky is offended, but then he sighs in acceptance.  She’s not wrong, is the thing. “In all fairness, at least I turned the exhaust fan on.”

“I was a business student, and the _aroma_ lingered on my pantsuits.”  She can joke about it years later, but at the time she was pissed as all hell.  Enough to move out of their cramped three person flat. “You were a terrible roommate.”

He places a box of apple cinnamon doughnuts into his cart and wheels it over to the checkout.  “Steve doesn't think so.”

She laughs.  “That's because he's just as bad as you.”

***

He comes home to Steve passed out on the living room floor.  The doughnut box falls from his arms as Bucky rushes forward.

“Steve!”

He falls to his knees at Steve’s side, and rolls him onto his back.  “If you die from food poisoning, I'm gonna kill you,” he snarls, but a hand over pale lips tells him Steve’s still breathing.  Bucky calls his name again, shakes him for good measure, and Steve blinks his beautiful blue eyes open, looking up all casual, as if he wasn’t lying face down on the floor a few seconds ago.

“Bucky,”  he says so reverentially it sends a shiver up his spine, then,  “Did you bring steak?” Bucky stares at Steve blankly for a few long moments.  There’s a apple cinnamon cruller by his foot, icing smeared on the hardwood. It looks so dejected.  Bucky understands how it feels.

“What the hell?”  He says, sitting back on his heels, scrubbing a hand through his long hair, feeling a confusing combination of relieved and frustrated.  “What is going on with you?”

“Nothing,”  Steve says. Climbing to his feet, he dusts off his pants.  His eyes light on a nearby cruller. Bucky fully expects him to pick it off the floor, and bite into it, but he just makes a face.  He brushes past Bucky, and their hands touch. Surprised, Bucky grabs Steve’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks. His skin is so cold, and so dry.

“Shit,”  he swears.  Tugging Steve closer, he presses the back of his hand to his forehead.  Instead of the fever he expects, Steve’s forehead is ice cold. “Okay, that’s it, grab your wallet, we’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m feeling great, there’s no need for that,”  Steve protests, then to emphasise his point he bends completely in half, wrapping his hands around his ankles, wiggling his butt in the air.  Bucky goes a bit cross-eyed at the show. “All bendy and everything. I don’t even have to stretch anymore.”

Bucky’s already shaking his head by the time Steve stands up again.  “Yeah, no, buddy, that’s not going to fly. Go, sit in the car, I’ll get your wallet.”

He sends Steve off with a worried frown.  Climbing up the stairs, and opening Steve’s room door, he spots his wallet on the desk beside his tablet.  grabbing it, he accidentally nudges the mouse. The screensaver disappears, to reveal a web page. It’s for a shady wild game supplier located a neighbourhood over in Borough Park.  A slideshow loads, advertising the freshest, organic meats straight from the woods to the plate, no dry aging whatsoever.

Normally he’d think nothing of it, but with the way Steve’s been acting, Bucky thinks it mighty strange that he’s suddenly developed a taste for wild game.

Closing Steve’s door, wallet tucked into his back pocket, he goes to put the groceries away, only to find the pack of steaks missing.  Opening the fridge, he locates them, albeit with one missing. Bucky groans, his head thumping against the fridge door. If he goes outside and finds Steve eating a raw steak in his Toyota, he’s going to lose his shit.

Thankfully, Steve is steakless when Bucky climbs into the driver’s seat, but his lips look suspiciously pink, and his smile is even sunnier than usual.  Bucky lobs his wallet at him.

“I’m telling you,”  Steve says, catching it.  “I’m fine.”

“Let a medical professional be the judge of that,”  he says shortly, and wheels the car out of their spot, gunning it down the street.

***

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, but the claim was denied,”  the nurse says, looking up from her computer with a completely blank expression.

“What?”  Bucky says, leaning over the desk, trying to get a look at her screen, but she tilts it away, frowning at him.

“Mr. Rogers’ insurance is expired.”

“What?”  Bucky repeats.

It’s been a terrible day.  They had to wait hours to see a doctor, all the while Steve insisted he was fine.  Bucky had to call Tasha and Sam up to tell them that the barbeque was cancelled because he had to take Steve to the hospital.  Sam understandably freaked out, and insisted on driving over anyway, but Bucky managed to convince him that it wasn’t serious. Tasha had asked if the hospital visit had something to do with the raw chicken, but Bucky hadn’t been able to give her a conclusive answer.

Now this?  This is just the icing on top of the cake.

She slides Steve’s insurance card across the counter.  He takes it, and squints at the blocky letters, finding that it expired three months ago.  “The fuck.”

“If Mr. Rogers recently left his place of employment—”

“He hasn’t.”

She doesn’t even look surprised.  “These things happen, Mr. Barnes, sometimes people forget, especially when work or home life causes undue stress.”  She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Of course, it always comes back to bite them in the ass.” She looks at Bucky accusingly like he’s somehow at fault for Steve forgetting to renew his insurance.  “How will you be paying tonight?”

Bucky grits his teeth and pulls out his credit card.

He finds Steve a few minutes later laughing with the blushing nurse drawing his blood.

“What the hell, Steve?”  He says, marching right over to them.  The nurse takes one look at him, slaps a bandaid on Steve, and leaves in a hurry, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

“Hey, Bucky,”  Steve says with a grin,  “Get this, Nurse Yelena says I’ve got a strong heartbeat.”

He’d bet anything that’s not all of Steve that Nurse Yelena thinks is strong.  “Good for you, bud,” Bucky says sarcastically, shoving Steve’s insurance card so far in his face that his eyes cross.  “Now, what the fuck is this?”

“My insurance card?”  Steve says.

“Yes.  Why is it expired?”

“It is?”  Steve says, he takes it from Bucky and holds it at a reasonable distance.  “Oh, it is.”

“You’re not wearing your glasses,”  Bucky says stupidly, only just realizing.  His eyes flick up to Steve’s left ear where his hearing aid is conspicuously missing as well.

“Also not colour blind anymore,”  Steve says joivally, tucking the card into his front pocket.  He’s so nonchalant about it. He can’t just say something like that and not expect Bucky to react.  “Red’s a pretty colour, isn’t it?”

Bucky takes a step back, bumping into a piece of equipment.  “What?” He says, feeling his stomach bottom out.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back,”  Steve says, rising from the cot and stretching his arms above his head, making an obscene noise that normally would have him tongue tied stupid, but at this point Bucky’s so far beyond his hopeless crush, he’s practically on Jupiter.

“There’s no fix for colour blindness,”  he says slowly, and he’d know. He gifted Steve his first comic book on his sixth birthday.  Bucky had gushed over all the beautiful colours, and made Steve burst into tears because all he could see were blues and yellows.  Bucky blamed himself for ruining Steve’s birthday, so he took it upon himself to research a cure. All the while a determined Steve picked up a crayon set instead, and coloured over the pages until the contrasts worked in his favour.

Steve never rolled over and went with the punches, he always fought back.  Which is why this _apathy_ is so unlike him.  If, by some miracle, Steve can see colours for the first time, there’s no way he would have hidden it away, he would have told Bucky, first thing.

Steve shrugs.  “Apparently there is.”

“You’re playing me,”  Bucky says, laughing. “This is all just an elaborate April Fool’s joke.”  He pats Steve’s shoulder. “Solid brownie points for commitment. You really got me on the chicken thing.”

“April is nearly over, Buck.”  Steve sighs, folding his arms over his chest, sending Bucky his patented disapproving look, which, Steve is not allowed to use that, not now.  “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you, I knew you’d act like this.”

“Like what?”  Bucky voice goes up a pitch.  “Like I’m freaking out? Because yeah, I’m kinda freaking the fuck out.  You’re scaring me.”

Steve shushes him, glancing around them, even though the curtain’s closed.  “Keep your voice down,” he whispers harshly.

“Or what?”  Bucky challenges,  “You’ll bite me?”

Steve bares his teeth.  “I might. You’re looking pretty tasty,”  he says sharply. Closing his eyes he inhales slowly.  His next words come out in a reedy, inhuman growl, “And you smell so _fucking_ good.”

That throws Bucky for a loop.  He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, at a loss for what to say.  Far beyond his control, he feels his cheeks embarrassingly flush with blood.  “Steve?” He says quietly.

Slowly, Steve blinks his eyes open, he runs them over Bucky’s body slow like molasses, expression glazed over.  Bucky’s trying so hard not to read desire, want, and everything he’s ever felt for Steve in that expression, but he’s failing miserably.

Steve’s gaze clears, and he reacts completely unexpectedly.  He claps his hands over his mouth, eyes wide like he’s seen a ghost.  His face loses all colour in an instant. “ _Bucky_ ,”  he whispers, voice breaking on his name.  “Buck, I’m so sorry.”

Bucky’s heart sinks in his chest, and he looks away, chewing on his lip.  He’s trying to hide how disappointed he is, because of course Steve isn’t confessing everything Bucky wanted to hear.  Of course he doesn’t feel the same.

He must fail terribly because Steve’s expression goes pained.  He looks like he’s about to cry, and that’s the last thing Bucky wants.

“Stevie, it’s okay.”  He reaches out, but Steve steps out of his grasp, and his fingers barely graze his shirt before he’s pulling aside the curtain, taking off down the hall.  Far away from Bucky and his messy, foolish feelings.


	2. Beyoncé doesn’t have a song for this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's career is inspired by an episode of The Imposters podcast, entitled "Meet the Porn Auteurs," go listen to it, it's fun.

Bucky returns home to a dark house.

He’d rushed after Steve in the hospital, but by the time he made it out the front, Steve had disappeared.  Probably grabbing one of the waiting cabs. Bucky stood outside the automatic doors, feeling like a sack of shit, until a old man in a wheelchair yelled at him to ‘getadda the way.’

Bucky had driven home in silence.  He’d tried calling Steve, but he never picked up.  After sitting out in the car for what must have been at least half an hour, he finally worked up the courage to go inside.

He flicks on the lights, and jogs up the stairs to Steve’s room.  The door’s firmly shut, and there’s only a faint light shining from under the gap.

He presses his ear to the wood, but hears nothing.  Shifting until his forehead leans against the door, he knocks, calling out softly,  “Steve?”

Getting no answer, he bites his lip, and tries again, knocking just a bit louder.  “Don't leave me hanging, buddy, please.” Still, nothing but silence. Worried, Bucky says, “If you don't answer I'm coming in on the count of three.  Three… two... one.”

Bucky walks into an empty room.  It’s obvious Steve hasn't come back, not even to grab a change of clothes.  His overnight bag is still in its usual place under the bed. There's a photo of them when they were gap-toothed kids on the dresser, right beside one of Steve and his mom from his kindergarten graduation.

Last year when Steve went to ComicCon, he took the picture of his mom with him.  He would never leave it behind.

Moving over to Steve's desk, he turns off his monitor and desk lamp.  Pulling out his phone, he walks down the flight of stairs.

Sam picks up on the second ring.  “How is he?”

Bucky deflates.  “I'm guessing that means he isn't on your couch?”

“No…”  Sam trails off.  “What's going on, Barnes?”

Bucky walks out onto the patio, the light flicking on, hoping to see Steve sleeping in one of the Adirondack chairs Bucky’s mom gifted them after they signed the lease.  Steve loves those damn uncomfortable things.

Instead, he finds an empty backyard, a lone shovel sticking out from the soil bags and hay bales near the fence, mocking him.  The bags are all split open, the little Long Island Cheese pumpkin seedlings Bucky spent weeks carefully germinating indoors poking out from the rich soil.  Steve must have planted them while Bucky was at the supermarket. The San Marzano tomatoes are potted and staked. The garden bed’s soil is turned and fresh, with rows of hills, perfectly spaced.  He even sowed the kale and radish seeds. How he managed to do this all within an hour, Bucky doesn’t know.

“He took off.  Just up and ran away, and he hasn’t come back home.”

“Did he get bad news?  He might have gone out.  You know,  _ glug glug _ ,”  Sam says, but even he sounds unconvinced.  Steve doesn’t go to bars, he’s always been a stay at home to drink kind of guy, even in college.

“He wasn’t acting like it.”  Bucky thinks about Steve laughing openly with the nurse.  “Can you think of anywhere else he might go?” Bucky asks.

“Try Nat.”

“Course, I’m calling her next.”

Sam hums.  “Then try Peggy Carter, she works with Steve.  The way he talks about her, they’re close. Wait, a sec, I’ve got her card somewhere.”

Bucky remembers Peggy, she was invited to their Fourth of July slash Steve’s birthday party last year.  From what Bucky recalls she’s Steve’s editor at the comics house where he works.

Sam promises to send Peggy’s number, and Bucky hangs up.  His phone vibrates, and the number appears in a text, just as he clicks Tasha’s picture.

“James,”  Tasha says,  “Are you alright?”

“Is Steve with you?”  He asks in a rush.

She gives a negative, and Bucky sags into the couch, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.  Tasha isn’t the comforting sort, but even she can tell that he’s on the verge of a meltdown. She speaks calmly, and slowly, and offers him reassurances.

“If you want to postpone the shoot tomorrow, we can do it,”  she says softly, though she knows how much it would cost them, but she’s willing to do it.  She’s that worried about him. God, Bucky loves her.

A lump sits in his throat as he says no.  The show must go on. They can’t afford any delays.

He just hopes he’ll be able to do his job when the time comes.  He hangs up, and immediately dials Peggy’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail, and that’s it, that’s all she wrote.

He buries his head in his hands, and wakes up the next morning on the couch with bloodshot eyes, a killer migraine, and a sore neck.  Checking around the house, it still looks like Steve hasn’t come home.  He waters the garden, pops an ibuprofen, then hops into the shower. 

Bucky has one dripping wet leg on the showermat, one still in the tub, when he realizes that he forgot to shave the hair from his junk.  He sighs, grabs the shaving cream, and climbs back into the shower.

Thirty minutes later and he’s in the car, driving to the studio, aka, Tasha’s condo in Williamsburg.  He gets stuck in traffic—because of course he does—and normally he’d put on a podcast, or play some Beyoncé to put him in the mood, but he really isn’t feeling it.

He takes the gilded elevator up to the condo that one of Tasha’s longtime clients left her in her will, and enters with his key.  Clint’s setting up the lightboxes when he walks through to the living room, and Bucky nods a greeting when he looks his way. There’s a massive wall of windows all along the north side, but they’ve already decided to shutter them in order to diffuse the light.  It’ll lend a different sort of atmosphere to the shoot, one more private than usual.

The moment Tasha sees him, she holds one finger up to the robe-clad actress she was speaking with, and walks over to Bucky, pulling him right into a hug.  Gratefully, he wraps his arms around her in return.

“Is he—”  She starts, but Bucky shakes his head.

She nods decisively, pulling back.  “I’ve already spoken with Laura, she’s agreed to film with me instead.”  Bucky opens his mouth in protest, but Tasha silences him with a single raised palm.  “We both know you’re not in the proper mindset right now.” She brushes a thumb against the bags under his eyes.  “I’m trusting you to direct. You won’t let me down, will you?”

“Never,”  he promises.

The shoot goes better than expected, Tasha and Laura have an amazing chemistry that Bucky couldn’t have managed in the state he’s in.  He’s directed before, but usually he has time to plan his shots. Somehow the spontaneity of having only a set of scenes scrawled in Tasha’s shorthand, and Clint gesturing wildly about which angles would be best to capture the softest light, works in their favour.

He gets an amazing shot of Tasha going down on Laura, enthusiastically.  Then another when Laura makes an adorable squeaking noise, kicking her leg out as Tasha licks behind her knee.

Bucky feels all warm on the inside.  He’s always loved making good porn. There’s beauty in capturing something that seems is so real, but at the same time involves hours of planning, setup, and face to face consent negotiations, among other things.

Once upon a time he wrote porn scripts for a major online distributor.  In fact, he’s the one that got Tasha into sex work in the first place. Directing is so different from where he started out, writing a dime a dozen scripts, from pizza delivery boys to handymen, to stories that weren’t so typical, and that weren't so well received.

Bucky both loved and hated the mainstream industry, and always tried to subvert the tropes any way he could.  Some viewers liked it, others really didn’t. He saved the script that he’s positive ensured he didn’t get his contract renewed.  Tasha and him, they’ll make it one day.

The company they started is still relatively new, but they’ve got a loyal, growing set of subscribers, and only recently were able to afford an insurance plan for all their employees.  Truly success at its finest.

After the shoot, Tasha hops into the shower, while Laura chats it up with a blushing Clint.  Bucky downloads the video files onto Tasha’s iMac, saving an extra copy to their designated hard drive.  He’s in the middle of setting up a timeline in Premiere Pro when his phone rings. Distracted, he picks it up without looking at the caller ID.

“Steve?”  A woman with a vaguely familiar British accent says.  “Is this Steve?”

“Peggy Carter?”  The mouse shoots out of Bucky’s hand, but he spins in the office chair, taking the call to the privacy of the balcony.

“Yes?”  She says, voice hesitant now that she knows he isn’t Steve.

“This is James, Steve’s roommate,”  he says.

“Oh,  _ Bucky _ ,”  she says with some relief, which quickly turns into a gasp.  “Is Steve alright? Is that why you called? Oh fuck me, I’ve been leaving him awful voice messages all morning.”

“Peggy,”  he says, and his voice cracks,  “You haven't seen him?”

Her tone goes sombre.  “I haven’t seen him in two weeks.  We usually communicate by email. He was supposed to send me his inks this morning, but I never received them.  Is he sick?”

“He didn’t come home last night,”  he says, pacing back and forth.

“And you tried contacting everyone he knows?”

“Yes,”  he says, and it’s sad that he can only think of three people he knows Steve would trust when he’s feeling vulnerable.

“Including his trainer?”

Bucky stops in the middle of his pacing.  “Actually, no. I haven’t.” He frowns at his feet.  “I didn’t think they were that close.”

“Steve trusts Mr. Erskine.  Whether I believe that is intelligent of him is another matter altogether,”  Peggy says sharply, and evidently she holds the same reservations over ‘Doctor’ Erskine that he does.

Bucky thanks her, and promises to call once he locates Steve.

Tasha’s sitting by the iMac when he comes back inside.  She’s rubbing a towel through her wet hair when she looks up at Bucky and says,  “Barton and Laura left together, and boy, I did not see that coming.”

“Can you help me find someone on Craigslist?”  Bucky says.


	3. cat parasites, or just really bad weather?

The internet is a bottomless pit, and Bucky regrets ever asked anything of it.

“It shouldn’t be this difficult to find a goddamned nutritionist on this hellsite,”  Bucky swears, leaning over Natasha’s shoulder as she combs through posting after posting.

“He must have taken it down,”  she says, her brow furrowed in growing frustration.  “Either that, or Steve lied about where he found him.”

“Why would he lie?”

“I don’t know, James.  Why would he eat raw chicken?”  She says in return. “Because he’s flown off the deep end.  He’s gone completely, utterly bonkers. Something is evidently terribly wrong with him, and now we have no idea where he is.”

Bucky groans, thumping his head against her shoulder.  “This is all my fault, I should have caught up with him in the hospital.”

“And a marmoset could keep up with Usain Bolt,”  she says deadpan, fingers clicking.

Bucky sighs.  “Thanks, Tash.”

“I can’t find any trace of him, no mentions in other ads, nothing.  It’s like Doctor Abraham Erskine does not exist.”

Bucky groans in frustration, rubbing a hand over his face.  Then he gets another idea. He nudges Tasha until she scoots over on the chair.  He sits beside her, but the chair was not built for two people, and it creaks under their combined weight.  Tasha grumbles, adjusting him until he’s sitting properly in her lap.

He minimizes Craigslist, and types ‘yellow pages’ into the new tab bar.

“Oh,”  Tasha says,  “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

A quick search turns up an address in Red Hook, only a half hour away with no traffic.  Saving the directions to his phone, he asks Tasha if she wants to come, but she has a meeting with an important client in an hour.

She makes him wait while she grabs a bottle of pepper spray from her safe.  “Just in case,” she says, handing it to him. He looks at the label, and from what he can tell, it’s the police grade stuff.  Not at all legal.

She sends him off with a kiss to the cheek.  “Don’t get arrested, or murdered, I’d hate to explain either to Winnie.”

Sitting in his car in traffic, Bucky practises what he plans on saying to Steve.  It’s obvious Steve doesn’t feel for him what he does for Steve, but that doesn’t mean they can’t still be friends.  He just doesn’t want Steve to feel uncomfortable. He’s always been open around Bucky. Walking around the house in only a pair of boxers.  Leaving the bathroom door open while he’s in the shower. Cuddling together on the couch while watching tv. They’ve always been close, that’s just how their friendship works.

Somehow he has to convince Steve that just because Bucky’s stupidly in love with him, it doesn’t mean they still can’t be friends.  He drops his forehead to the steering wheel, swearing under his breath.

It’ll be fine.  Steve was nothing if not supportive when he came out.  When he started writing porn scripts, Steve was always there offering up hilarious ideas.  Heck, Steve gave them the five hundred bucks Tasha and him needed for their website’s domain and hosting.

By the time he reaches his destination, he feels chewed raw.  Gathering his courage, and with the pepper spray tucked into his jacket pocket, he leaves the car.  Bucky buys an hour’s worth of time from the parking meter, just in case Steve needs some convincing.

Erskine’s office is in a dilapidated red brick building, graffiti sprayed on the front door in looping letters.  There’s a blade sign hanging above the door, colours faded, and brackets rusty, but it reads _Dr. Erskine’s All Natural Health Products_.

The bell rings as he walks into the shop.

“Just one moment!”  A man with a thick European accent calls.  Bucky takes his time to look around, hoping to spot Steve hiding behind a display.  But the floor is empty of anyone but him. It’s a typical health food store, bottles in various shapes and sizes galore, pictures of muscled people posted to every wall.  Behind the counter sits the three pound bottle of protein powder that started this whole mess. Bucky eyes the white plastic, a blue, red, and white target insignia on the label.

According to Steve, it’s peanut butter flavored.

“Back so soon?”  A balding man in a lab coat says, walking around the corner.  “Did Odins—Oh, hello. How can I help you?”

“You Abraham Erskine?”  Bucky asks gruffly, tucking his thumbs into his back pocket, eying the man up and down.  He could be Doc Brown’s brother, which really says all that needs saying. He really doesn’t look like a paragon of health.

Erskine’s smile fades.   Pushing his round spectacles up his nose, he says cautiously,  “Whom, may I inquire, is asking?”

Bucky smiles, jaw creaking with the strain of it.  “A concerned friend.”

“Ah,”  Erskine says.  He relaxes, smile returning,  “You must be Bucky.”

Bucky tries to look as unthreatening as possible, he relaxes his shoulders, somehow schools his voice into a casual tone.  “I’m looking for Steve. Where is he?”

“Now, how would I know?”  Erskine shrugs, busying a nearby display, brushing away a layer of non-existent dust.  He doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes, and he’s so obviously lying, it’s insulting. Bucky grits his teeth.

Smile dimming, he points over Erskine’s shoulder to the protein powder.  “What is in that stuff?”

Erskine doesn’t turn around to look where Bucky’s pointing, he just says, “Whey.”

“Listen, man, I’m not here to steal your secret juice recipe or whatever.  Steve’s been acting weird, and the only thing I can think of that has changed in his life is that he started seeing you.”

“He also moved to Brooklyn,”  Erskine points out.

That throws Bucky in for a loop.  “Yes, but that can’t be it.”

“Why not?  There might be something in the water, a lot of the old houses here have lead pipes.  You should hire a home inspector. Also, have you considered the mind controlling capabilities of _Toxoplasma gondii_?  Do you have a cat?”

Bucky blinks slowly.  “No.”

Erskine hums.  “Then maybe the air pollution disagrees with him.”

“Air pollution?  This isn’t L.A.,”  Bucky argues, “And it’s not the water.  Or cats.”

Erskine smirks.  “How would you know, are you a doctor?”

“Are you?”  Bucky throws back smugly.

“Why of course,”  Erskine says, gesturing to a row of frames on the wall where, oh… that’s a pre-med diploma from the University of Munich, and—Bucky’s eyes bug out of his skull—an MD from Johns Hopkins University.

“Why the fuck—”

“Have I opened a health food store?”  Erskine, actually, Johns Hopkins alum _Doctor_ Erskine says, “Yes, well, research money dries up quickly in my field.  As it turns out funding for the development of new antibiotics effective against _Mycobacterium tuberculosis_ is not as prioritized as diabetes or heart disease, despite over a million people succumbing to it every year.”

He opens and shuts his mouth a few times.  “I donate to Doctors Without Borders,” Bucky says weakly.

“Oh, how wonderful,”  Dr. Erskine says with complete sincerity,  “It is a battle that’s been waged since before our ancestors lived in caves, and we’ll most likely be on the losing side when it follows us to humanity’s end, but every cent counts.”

“Oh my God,”  Bucky whispers under his breath.

“You’d be surprised how much money this little shop brings in,”  Dr. Erskine says, gesturing around to a shop empty of all customers.  “Mostly online orders,” he admits. “We have good shipping rates.”

“Why Steve, though?”  Bucky pushes. “Why were you training him?  He can’t afford a doctor’s fees. And I’m pretty sure insurance doesn’t cover whatever you do.”

“I’m sorry,”  he says, regretful,  “You may be Steve’s best friend, but that’s between me and him, don’t you think?”

“He’s _missing_ ,”  Bucky emphasis, because he doesn’t think that’s getting through Dr. Erskine’s thick skull,  “He never came home last night.”

“Is he now?”  Dr. Erskine says casually,  “Perhaps he just needs space, fresh air and the like.  He could just be on a _really_ long run.”

Bucky stares at him, eyes narrowing.  He jabs a finger his way. “You know something,”  Bucky accuses, “What have you done to him?”

Dr. Erskine just looks at him blankly, and says,  “I made him better.”

Bucky gapes.  Unbelievably, Dr. Erskine sounds like he believes the hogwash he’s selling.

“He was fine the way he was, without all these crazy side effects,”  he spits.

Dr. Erskine laughs, a mean, condescending thing, surprising Bucky.  He was so calm, and composed before, but now his tone is biting.

“He was deaf in one ear, and could barely see on top of it all.  You call him your friend, but you didn’t notice he had to get a new prescription every few months.  He was going _blind_.  Can you imagine how that feels, an artist, losing his sight?”  Dr. Erskine purses his lips, and rolls his shoulders, anger dialing down a notch.  “I shouldn’t have said that, that’s not my place.”

Bucky is not as mitigated.  “So he eats raw meat now?” He demands, voice rising.  “He faints, and thinks nothing of it? He pushes away the people closest to him?”

“It’s a small sacrifice to pay for good health.”  Dr. Erskine says, and Bucky scoffs. “You wouldn’t understand, you’ve probably never been sick a day in your life.”

Bucky steps away before he does something he knows he’ll regret.  Fisting his hands at his sides, he _glowers_.

Quieter, Dr. Erskine continues,  “I never did anything to him that he did not want.”

Bucky fists a hand in his hair.  “Fuck,” he breathes, tears pricking at his eyes.  “Where is he? Just tell me where he is. I need to know that he’s safe.”

“He doesn’t want to see you,”  Dr Erskine says firmly, “And I think it would be best if you left.”

Bucky glares for one long moment, but Dr. Erskine stares calmly back.

He whirls on his heel, and marches out of the shop.  He’s not surprised to hear the lock snap behind him.

Bucky stands on the sidewalk for some time, huffing in frustration.  He could sit in his car, and wait for Steve to return, because he knows Steve will return.  When he first came in, Dr. Erskine had spoken like he was expecting someone other than Bucky.  Turning around and looking back at the shop, he sees Dr. Erskine on the phone, eyes locked on Bucky, either calling the police, or warning Steve to stay away.  Bucky flips him the bird, and marches down the street to his parked car.

Unlocking the door with a click, he walks around to the driver’s side when something catches his eye.

There, stapled to a pole is a poster advertising the same wild game distributor he saw on Steve’s computer.  In the centre, under _Aesir Wild Cuts_ is a picture of a grinning, beefy blonde wearing white coveralls, his arm draped around the shoulder of an unsmiling pale man completely his opposite.  Below the picture reads, “ _Come, sample the freshest meats the Odinson Brothers have to offer!_ ”

Bucky types the address into Maps.


	4. heart health is smart health

****The woman behind the counter pops a wasabi peanut, biting down on it like she’s crushing the skulls of her enemies.  The eye contact she makes with Bucky is unnerving, to say the least.

He clears his throat.  “I was wondering if I could speak with your manager?”

The shop is a nice enough place, if a bit lumbersexual.  There’s a whole bunch of exposed pine, hipster fonts, and handwritten chalk menus, not to mention the taxidermied bear in the corner wearing an ushanka.  This is the exact kind of place Steve would love. He’d fit right in with his calico shirts, American blue jeans, and his love of all things quirky.

Brunnhilde—according to the name embroidered above the breast pocket of her uniform—grunts and pops another peanut.  There’s a rustling coming from the piles of paperwork on the counter, and when Bucky looks, he nearly falls on his ass.

“Is—what the fuck?!”  Bucky exclaims, stumbling back when a _snake_ pokes its head out.  Tongue flickering in Bucky’s direction, its attention quickly turns to Brunnhilde.  With a wiggle, it slithers over the papers. Brunnhilde’s eyes soften and she strokes its tail.  It coils around her forearm, cream coloured, with yellow blotches and red eyes. It must be at least four feet long.

Brunnhilde runs her fingers down the snake’s body, cooing at it.  When she looks to Bucky, all traces of gentle care disappear from her expression.  In fact she’s downright mean. “You with the Grandmaster?”

“I’m sorry, the Grand-who?”

“The Grand- _who,_ he says.”  She rolls her eyes.  Leaning back in her chair, she proceeds to completely ignore him.  Bucky stares at her. He frowns, trying to remember why that name seems familiar, when he recalls writing a script for one of the kinkier websites owned by his former employers.  One of the actors… but… no way…

“Do you mean…”  She looks up, and he makes a motion like he's cracking a bullwhip,  “ _That_ Grandmaster?”

“So you do know him,”  she says, eyeing him up and down.

Bucky shrugs.  “I've never met him, but you could say we're in the same business.  In competition even.” In no way is Bucky in competition with the Grandmaster.  They cater to vastly different kinds of audiences. While Bucky sometimes ventures into kink, it doesn't go beyond sex toys, maybe a little rope here and there.  The Grandmaster is an entirely different kind of beast. Last Bucky heard the guy was negotiating a major sponsorship gig with Bad Dragon. _That's_ the kind of stuff he makes.

“Huh,”  she says, tapping a finger against her chin,  “I thought you looked familiar.”

“Bucky,”  he says, holding out his hand.  Brunnhilde shakes it. Her grip is rock solid, gaze unwavering.

She quirks a brow.  “So, not just a stage name?”

He rests his forearms on the counter, smirking up from under his lashes; his signature move.  To her credit, Brunnhilde looks only slightly hotter under the collar. Impressive.

“Valkyrie!”  A booming voice calls from the back.  “I have prepared the most exquisite sloppy Joseph, you must sample it!”

A man pushes through a set of swinging doors, wearing a butcher's apron with blood all down the front of it, a giant mixing bowl tucked in the cradle of one massive arm.  He’s even bulkier than Steve, and that’s saying something.

It takes a few seconds, but Bucky recognizes him.  He's one of the men from the poster, the blond one, though his appearance has changed drastically since that photo was taken.The eyepatch is new, and instead of long blonde locks, his hair is disheveled and short, like someone took a weed whacker to it.  He has to be having an even worse time than Bucky, but his smile says otherwise.

“Oh my, Sugar, where did you come from?”  The man croons, setting a bowl of sloppy joe filling in front of Brunnhilde.  He bends over her shoulder, making kissy faces at the snake. Its muscles freeze with tension, and Bucky isn’t stupid, even he can tell what’s about to happen.

The man drops the lightest of kisses on the snake’s head, and it strikes.  Darting out, it bites the man on the chin. Bucky winces, but the man just laughs, the snake hanging on valiantly.

“Sugar, you saucy wench!”  He says in delight, wrapping a big hand around the snake, taking her from Brunnhilde.  The snake detaches its fangs, tongue flicking out to lick the blood dripping from his beard.  “What a bad girl you are.” The man tickles her tail, and she forms a ball in his hand with a wiggle.  He turns his attention to Bucky, towering over him.

“Hello, a new customer!”  The man exclaims, making Bucky jump in surprise.  “Welcome to _Aesir Wild Cuts_ , where we deliver all your favourite meats straight from the woods to your plate!  My name is Thor, and I am privileged to aid in your meaty adventures.”

Bucky scratches the back of his neck sheepishly.  “I’m not here as a customer, I’m looking for someone.”

At that, Thor’s eyes narrow.  “You can tell the Grandmaster that if he wants my brother, he’ll have to go through me first.”

“He already went through you.  Twice,” Brunnhilde points out, shoving a spoonful of filling in her mouth.  Sugar lifts her head in interest.

Thor purses his lips.  “He’ll have to go through me a third time.”

Bucky stares at the two of them, perplexed, wondering how a tentacle loving pornstar raised their hackles so.  “I’m not looking for your brother, and I don’t know what the Grandmaster has done—”

“He has committed the greatest of atrocities against my brother and I!”  Thor declares dramatically. “He held me down and ordered a thrice-damned geriatric man to shear my golden locks with sheep clippers for his own sick amusement!  He abandoned my good brother at the altar in folly! He is opening an eighties themed karaoke pub slash vegan restaurant down the street! He is a bad, bad man.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly.  “I’m just looking for my friend.  He’s missing.” He pulls out his phone, and flips to the most recent picture he took of Steve.  He’s standing in front of their porch door with a cup of tea in hand, the setting sun bathing him in warm golds and pinks.  He looks so beautiful, which is why Bucky sneakily took the picture. “Have either of you seen him?” He shows the photo to Thor and Brunnhilde, and they crowd closer to look.

“Oh yes, I remember him, so handsome,”  Thor says. “He came to meet Loki this morning during breakfast.”  He chortles. “I thought they were courting, but now that you claim your friend is missing…”  Thor trails off, eyes growing wide. “Loki wouldn't….”

Brunnhilde pats Thor on the back of his hand.  “Loki isn't Hela. He’s nothing like her.”

“Hela, who's Hela?”  Bucky asks with some trepidation.

Both of them look nervous, but Thor says,  “My sister. She willed Loki her business after…well...”  He trails off, hanging his head in despair.

He knows that look all too well.  When his bubbe passed he’d been inconsolable for weeks, it's really the worst thing to lose a family member.

“I'm so sorry for your loss—”

“...she was detained for orchestrating a killing spree while vacationing in Norway.”

Bucky chokes on his tongue, and just about coughs up his lungs.  When he is decidedly less red in the face, and Thor has quit asking if he’s alright, Bucky croaks,  “Excuse me?”

“Don't worry, she's locked up tight,”  Thor says, miming turning a key and throwing it away.

“That's not what I'm worried about.”  Bucky clears his throat. “Where can I find your brother?”

“My brother,”  Thor starts, “Is a troubled young man.”

“He’s only a year younger than you,”  Brunnhilde adds.

“Yes,”  Thor nods, getting a little teary eyed,  “He has taken over my sister’s business, and forsaken the one we started together.”  A great big sob, and Thor dabs Sugar the snake against his eyes like she’s a handkerchief.  Sugar seems less than pleased with the treatment. “It pains me to say, but he can be found by Green-Wood, readying the bodies of the innocent for eternal slumber.”

“What?”  Bucky says, dumbfounded.

“He’s a mortician,”  Brunnhilde says with a grimace.  “Thor will fetch you his address after he returns Sugar to her tank.   _Now_.”

Thor sniffs, but does as ordered, disappearing through the swinging doors.

Bucky slumps over, head thumping against the counter.  He gives himself a moment to breathe, before looking up at Brunnhilde.  “Tell me about Loki?” He asks. If Steve is dating this… this _mortician_ , which, Bucky doesn’t understand how that happened.  Whatever it is between them, he’s evidently pulled Steve into some weird shit, and it’s up to Bucky to get him out.  That’s Bucky, always pulling Steve out of fights, ever since they were kids.

Brunnhilde shrugs.  “Thor loves his little brother more than meat or mead combined, which is saying something, so don't mess with him, or Thor will find you and beat you into soup.”

“What about you?”  Bucky asks, curious,  “What do you think of him?”

“I think he's a righteous little prick, but then again so does everyone, except Thor.  A brother's love is unconditional,” she says, looking vaguely nauseated. “We grew up together and I still can’t bloody stand him.  I don’t know where Thor comes up with the patience to deal with him.”

“Ah,”  Bucky says astutely.

When they were in college he and Steve once had a drunken discussion about some of the worst things a date could do before they’d cut a night short with prejudice.  Bucky said he’d hate if they picked their nose, or if they ate off Bucky’s plate. Steve of course said he could never be with someone who was rude to wait staff. He wouldn’t even consider a second date if they didn’t tip.

With that in mind, and with his face going hot at the inanity of the question, he asks,  “Is Loki a good tipper?”

She looks at him slyly, and Bucky wonders if he really is that obvious.  “Very much so,” Brunnhilde drawls, “Frigga hammered that into them early on.  The Odinsons always tip at least thirty percent. Overachievers, the both of them.  Especially when they start arguing over who gets to pay.”

Righteous, _and_ a good tipper?  Oh no. He’s exactly Steve’s type.

***

The address Thor gives him is right across the street from Green-Wood cemetery, but Bucky has to stop for gas before he gets there.  All this driving around Brooklyn has drained his tank dry.

As he’s filling the tank he starts planning what he’s going to say to Steve.  Bucky’s going to tell him how he feels. He’s already decided there’s no point in hiding it away any longer.  He’s going to tell Steve, and let the chips fall where they may. He’s scared, but he knows Steve, he’s known him for over twenty years.  Bucky’s being stupid, thinking that Steve would abandon him over something as stupid as his messy feelings. Even if he doesn’t feel the same for Bucky, Steve’s still Steve, and he’s good.

With nerves shot to hell, he waits at a light, drumming his fingers on the wheel, when he remembers the bonus ‘you’re my favourite customer’ treat Pietro gave him a week ago.  Shit, if it’s gone bad, he’ll be so disappointed.

Digging around under the seat, he pulls out some loose change as well as a half torn paper bag with an “ah ha!”  Now, normally Bucky isn’t one to partake in edibles when he’s on the road, but he figures it’ll take at the most half an hour to drive to the funeral home.  Half an hour before the high kicks in. He’ll need that high when he gets there. Besides, his neck hurts from sleeping like a pretzel last night. He deserves this.

The old lady in the car over gives him a weird look as he blows a dust bunny off one of Pietro’s infamous double chocolate chip cookies, kisses it, then shoves it into his mouth like a gremlin.  He sends her a chocolaty, but innocent grin, and she smiles back weakly.

Bucky’s feeling nice and loosey goosey by the time he stands in front of the funeral home, his hands on his hips.  Taking a deep breath, he walks inside to a roomful of coffins in various shapes, sizes, and colours, as well as a rampant collection of statuesque potted plants.  A few of which could use a deep watering and a little less fertilizer, going by their brown tipped leaves.

There’s no one manning the front desk, and no bell to ring for service, but there is a corridor leading around a corner, and it’s calling his name.

Treading silently on the carpeted floor, he walks through the dim lit funeral home.  The corridor’s surrounded on both sides by painting after painting of roiling seas, and dark forests, wild beasts with sharper teeth prowling within.  It’s exactly the taste one would expect of someone convicted of murder.

Stumbling down a set of creaking stairs, he hears muted voices coming from a nearby door cracked open.  Peeking through the gap, a heavy weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying slides right off his shoulders.

It’s Steve.

He’s talking to the other man from the _Aesir Wild Cuts_ poster: Loki, Thor’s brother, and apparently Steve’s someone.  They’re standing close together, heads bowed in deep conversation.  They could be arguing, or whispering sweet nothings, Bucky can’t tell, Steve’s back is to him, and his wide shoulders are blocking the expression on Loki’s face.

Taking a deep breath, he knocks lightly on the door, pushing it open fully.

This must be the place where Loki does his embalming.  Tubs with chemical warning symbols on the labels, a stainless steel table, stark white cabinets, and a tile floor with a drain in the centre.  All of this, and Steve whirls around looking like someone’s caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Bucky?”  Steve says, and the panic in his eyes gives way to confusion.  “What are you doing here?”

“Steeb,”  Bucky says, his tongue heavy in his mouth.  Wow, that’s one potent cookie. His compliments to the chef.  He swallows, trying to get used to the feeling that his neck is somehow getting longer.  Umm.

Steve stares at him in disbelief.  “Are you high?”

“There is a very strong possibility that is so,”  Bucky says, snapping his fingers and breaking out into a big smile.  “I can’t believe I found you.”

Steve’s mouth twitches.  Like a wall falling, he too smiles and Bucky has never been happier.  Birds are singing, the sun is shining, and Bucky’s so damn in love with his best friend.  Anxiety? He doesn’t know her. He can’t believe he ever doubted Steve.

With a heart full of love, he steps closer.  A futuristic looking cooler sits on a cart near Steve.  He must have bought something from Thor. God, but Bucky doesn’t care.  So long as Steve comes home with him, he’ll gladly serve him a plate of the rawest steak, lit candle in the center of the table.  So romantic.

“Stevie, I love you so much, please come home with me,”  he says, holding his hand out. Steve’s eyes shine, his beautiful lips part, and he stares at Bucky with so much emotion, he wonders why he was stupid enough to avoid confessing his love years ago.  Loki who? Steve’s not boyfriend watches them with something like amusement, no jealousy at all.

“Oh my God, you do?”  Steve says, stepping towards Bucky, reaching for his hand.  He knocks into the cart by accident, and the cooler tips. The lid falls open, and the contents spill, ice packs, and something red in a ziplock baggie.  Steve dives for it. “don’t—”

“Oops,”  Bucky giggles, beating Steve to it.  He holds the baggie up to the light, and only then does he register what’s inside.

He shrieks and drops it, falling on his ass, scrambling away.  It rolls to a stop at Steve’s feet. “That’s a foot, holy shit, that’s a foot, a foot, a motherfuckin’ foot!”

“Bucky,”  Steve says mournfully, picking up _the_ _foot_ , slipping it back in the cooler with the ice packs.

“Why do you have a human foot?”  Bucky demands, and then, “Fucking shit, did you kill someone?”  He stares at Steve like he doesn’t even know him, and Bucky supposes he doesn’t.  He never once considered Steve capable of murder.

“No!”  Steve exclaims, eyes wide like saucers,  “I bought it from Loki.”

“He did not.  I have never seen this man, nor this foot before in my life,”  Loki says, arms crossed over his chest, staring Bucky down the slope of his long nose, as if begging him to disagree.

“Loki,”  Steve chides.  “He’s safe. He’s Bucky.”

Loki harrumphs, rolls his eyes, and says,  “Well, when you need more, you know where to find me.”  He brushes past Bucky on his way out, leaving them alone.

Bucky scrambles to his feet, staring after him in shock.  He looks up to Steve, who grimaces. “What did he mean, _when_ you need more?”  Steve’s lips twist and he stares down at his feet.  Bucky clears his throat, “Is this… uh… is this a _sex_ thing?”

Steve blanches, and he stares at Bucky in complete horror, which answers that question perfectly well.

“Bucky, No!”  Steve takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, like he’s gathering his resolve.  He says, “I’m going to eat it.”

Bucky’s already shaking his head.  “Um, no, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,”  Steve says with a decisive nod.  Bucky gapes at him.

“What the fuck, Steve!”

“I am a member of the undead, and I need human flesh to—”

Bucky lifts his hands.  “Back up one second, member of the undead?”  He says, voice shrill.

“I’m a zombie, Bucky,”  Steve says solemnly.

Bucky’s jaw drops.  “Get the fuck out.”

***

Bucky sits beside Steve in the empty visitation room, the cooler on Steve’s other side where Bucky doesn’t have to look at it.  Though he can’t stop thinking about it.

“I won't deteriorate so long as I keep up with this diet,”  Steve says, hands fidgeting in his lap. “Dr. Erskine didn’t know this would be a side effect until today.  It took us both by surprise.”

Bucky wants to reach over and stop him from moving.  Pietro's edible is really hitting him hard. In hindsight it might not have been the smartest thing to eat it just before coming here.

“I was just supposed to need more food than a normal person, I didn’t think I’d get these _cravings_.”  

Bucky drops his head on the back of the chair, squinting at the swirling pot lights on the ceiling.

“Do you hate me?”  Steve asks quietly.  “Say something.”

“I could never hate you,”  Bucky says, and he knows it to be true.  Steve could have killed the guy whose foot that was, and Bucky still wouldn't hate him.  He’d have freaked out, cried, probably have a panic attack, but ultimately he’d be the one driving them out to Jersey, shovels in his backseat, tarp wrapped body in the trunk.  That’s how much he loves Steve goddamn Rogers.

“Do you still love me?”

Bucky turns his head.  Steve’s looking at him nervously, eyes wet.  He’s biting his lip raw, worrying at it. Bucky sighs.  “I’ve loved you so long, I don’t think I could stop that easy.”

“Good,”  Steve says,  “‘Cause I love you a whole lot, too.”

Bucky scrubs a hand over his face, heart clenching in his chest.  “And you’re sure this is permanent, that there’s no cure?”

Steve nods.  “Dr. Erskine did some blood work, and he said my cells were all pretty much changed on a molecular level.  There’s no going back.”

Bucky freezes.  “Blood work?” He sits up straight, looking at Steve in growing horror.  “Steve, you had your blood drawn at the hospital.” Bucky jumps to his feet.

Steve blinks slowly.  “Oh shoot,” he whispers.

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand tugging him up, snagging the cooler with the other.  This isn’t the time for squeamishness. If they run those tests and find something weird with Steve, they’re going to lock him up, take him to Area 51 or something like that, and throw away the key.

“We have to go,”  Bucky says, already pulling Steve out of the room.  “We have to get your blood back!”


End file.
